


Truth and Roses

by Copgirl1964



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Boys Kissing, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Kissing, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:01:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27067573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Copgirl1964/pseuds/Copgirl1964
Summary: Both Mycroft and Greg are pining for each other, completely overlooking that the other is just as smitten. Then Mycroft is taken to hospital and his best kept secret is going to be revealed.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 49
Kudos: 197





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scribblingnellie (onegirlandherpen)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onegirlandherpen/gifts).



> This took me quite some time to write, although the idea was more or less fleshed out right from the start. The story was won by @Scribblingnellie at Rupert Graves' birthday auction and it took me until Mark Gatiss birthday to publish the first chapter 🙄. The story was supposed to be 2k long but as it's typical for me, the first chapter already exceeded that word count.  
> Thank you, @lavender_and_vanilla for beta-ing again for me.

No sooner than the door to 221b Baker Street had closed with a soft click, Sherlock collapsed face first onto the sofa with a dramatic groan. “John, you owe me. Big time,” Sherlock complained, his voice muffled by the pillow his face was buried in.  
For once John agreed, because he was incredibly proud of Sherlock. Instead of firing volleys of the snarkiest of remarks at Greg Lestrade, Sherlock had endured endless minutes of the DI waxing lyrical about Mycroft.

“He really is rather besotted with your brother,” John said, putting the kettle on and opening a package of biscuits.

“They, John. They are besotted, both Lestrade and Mycroft,” Sherlock all but yelled into the pillow. “How on earth, can they be this blind? It’s plain as day.” The consulting detective left the sofa and began rummaging through a drawer to find a desperately needed nicotine patch.

“Come on,” John said, carrying their teacups as well as the biscuits to the table before he sat down. “You have to agree that it is a bit funny.”

“Funny?” Sherlock stopped searching for a moment and looked at his friend incredulously. “I swear I’m going to bleed from my eyes if I have to watch another of their dopey smiles.”

John giggled into his cup as Sherlock finally found his patch and slapped it onto his arm, right below the two patches that already graced his skin.

Taking two biscuits and stuffing them into his mouth, Sherlock waved with the teacup in John’s direction. “I demand fish and chips, and you are going to go and shop for milk the next two months.”

John refrained from mentioning that, among themselves, it was always he who bought the milk anyway. “Alright,” he agreed readily. “And I’m sure they’ll catch on soon enough.”

2

Greg ran through Regent’s Park as if he was chased by wolves. Why couldn’t he keep his trap shut? Gushing about Mycroft in front of Sherlock, of all people. Greg had gone on and on about Mycroft’s intelligence and his suits for minutes on end before he even noticed what he was doing. Again. Red-faced he’d fled the premises, gone home and changed into his running gear.

For a man in his fifties Greg was still pretty fast. Playing football every so often and watching his diet, when he’d actually had a chance to watch it, did keep him in shape. Still, he wasn’t a spring chicken any longer. After a mile he slowed to a moderate trot to get both his heartbeat as well as breathing under control. The last thing he wanted was someone calling an ambulance because some old geezer fell over, probably from having suffered a stroke or heart attack.

In his mind he could all but hear Sally’s voice. “The age of fifty plus doesn’t make you Methuselah!” He couldn’t help it though. Ten years younger he might have stood a chance, even if it was a very slim one, with Mycroft Holmes. Now though? Greg doubted it. Why should that elegant, sophisticated man be interested in an old copper past his prime? He probably had people queueing to be taken to receptions with foreign diplomats or the Royals as arm-candy. Grey hair and a body marked by fifty-seven years of exposure to gravity were certainly no trademarks to be even considered.

His mind returned to Baker Street, where he’d all but run into Mycroft. He’d let out a delighted “Hi!” worthy of a star-struck 12 year old, and smiled in a way that probably left the impression that he was suffering from a seizure. Mycroft too had smiled for a second or two, but then turned away with a face that looked almost scarlet and rushed from the flat with barely more than a good-bye.

Greg decided to run another round before doing his usual set of stretches and heading home to make some dinner. Dinner that would be eaten in front of the telly while football was on. There were also some shirts to iron. What a stellar Thursday night!

Across London Mycroft sat on the patio and drank a cup of tea. Pondering, he came to the conclusion that it was the sense of belonging that was missing in his life. For a long time he’d thought himself belonging to the British government, but as much as he felt at home there, it no longer was enough. He wanted to belong to a family, but to his dismay he no longer had a family. Sherlock found the place where he belonged, at John Watson’s side. His mother hadn’t, and would never, forgiven him for lying about Eurus, and his father, well was his father, who walked in the shadow of his wife. He sighed, absently running a hand over his abdomen. The pain there wasn’t too bad today, but he’d promised himself to see his doctor the following week.

His gaze wandered through the garden and as it came to rest on his conservatory he couldn’t help but smile. Several years ago Mycroft had begun cultivating roses in the small garden behind his house. It kept him entertained during summer when parliament wasn’t in session, and had proved to be surprisingly relaxing. In the feeble hope it might help bring him the favourable attention he craved from the people he cared for, he’d even begun breeding roses after the incident at Sherrinford. Roses always had interested his mother, and bees, who’d become a recent interest of Sherlock, were interested in roses. His efforts didn’t get him more than a pat on the shoulder from his father, communicating that he respected that Mycroft tried, even though without even a sliver of success.

Still, Mycroft met a few intriguing people through that hobby. Anthea had introduced him to Mika, a woman with bushy hair who knew as much about roses as there was to know. In a joint effort Anthea and Mika even managed to persuade him to participate at the upcoming Chelsea Flower Show by displaying one of his roses. He’d decided on a tea rose with pink flowers and a gentle vanilla scent. Pink was his mother’s favourite colour. Mycroft knew he’d chosen that rose in the feeble hope to get on her good side again, but knew in his heart that it was hopeless.

Mycroft was roused from his brooding by a soft ping of his computer. He’d deny to his dying day that he was the tiniest bit grateful for the trouble-makers who plagued Regent’s Park because it resulted that CCTV being put up near prominent spots.

It was because of one of those cameras now displayed the image of the Triton and Dryads Fountain in Regent’s Park on Mycroft’s laptop. The fountain itself was of little interest to him, the figure who used the rim of the stone basin for stretching was a wholly different matter though. Watching Greg Lestrade, whose shirt and pants clung attractively to his body, bending over one propped up leg was enough to derail Mycroft’s train of thought successfully.

He conceded the Holmes brothers' tendency to addiction. Sherlock craved drugs. Mycroft craved the sight of one DI Greg Lestrade, who came with his own potency of being addictive. He’d seen the handsome inspector earlier, just before he left his brother’s place and the man’s smile had all but floored him. How was it possible for Lestrade to walk through London without both men and women alike falling to their knees, begging him to be taken home with him. It, was a mystery to Mycroft. He was equipped with all the traits that made him perfect husband-material. Caring, gentle, attentive and incredibly handsome. He’d never harm his partner, could hold a conversation on a whole variety of topics, and had a regular income that came with paid holidays, forty-hour week, etcetera. Naturally, the man wouldn’t consider someone like Mycroft for a partner. Who needed a standoffish toff with a hawkish nose, receding hairline and pale, freckled skin? He sighed into his teacup.

Mycroft kept watching Lestrade going through the rest of his stretching and walking away from the fountain before he switched off his laptop. He could follow him via CCTV, but even Mycroft knew that such behaviour was a bit creepy. Besides, he’d to bring the rose for the show from the conservatory. The last thing he needed was for anyone poking around and finding his prize possession held in the conservatory.

Getting up he winced when a sharp pain shot through his abdomen. Perhaps he should call his doctor today. He limped a few steps towards the conservatory. If anything, the pain got worse. With a groan he leaned against the door but without further warning his vision went black and he collapsed into an unconscious heap.

* * *

Listening to the news on the radio, Mika shook her head over the latest shenanigans concocted by the inhabitant of 10 Downing Street. Stopping the van in front of Mycroft Holmes’ house, she hopped out and quickly unloaded the trolley with the transport case for the rose he’d bread and prepared for this year's flower show. Hopefully it wasn’t another yellow because, as beautiful as they were, there were too many yellow roses on display already. As she’d been instructed, she walked around the house and punched in the numbers at the keypad that secured the heavy wooden door leading to the garden. Once again she was struck by the beauty of this small but impeccable sanctuary. A set of two folding chairs and a small round table, each item looking like it had come right from some French bistro, stood in a nook between blooming shrubs. It was clear to her though that the owner of the garden preferred the single reclining sun lounger with a thick cushion that stood on the porch. It made her long to spend her afternoon right there, reading, drinking tea or having a nap. Perhaps one day she’d be able to afford one of those undoubtedly expensive chairs.

Since Mr. Holmes wasn’t in sight, she called out, already walking towards the conservatory at the end of the garden. She didn’t receive an answer, which was very unusual, especially since the doors stood wide open. Perhaps the man had made a quick dash to the bathroom, she wondered. Her train of thought came to a screeching halt when she detected the body of the very man she’d been looking for, lying on the ground.

“Mr. Holmes!” Mika knelt down next to him, seeing that he was barely conscious. He looked pale, shivered and his hands were pressed to his abdomen.

Fishing her mobile from her pocket, she dialed 999 to call an ambulance. The woman answering her call told her it would be less than 10 minutes until the car got there. She called Anthea next, although she was certain Mr Holmes’s PA had been informed immediately that an ambulance was dispatched to his address.

Once she had fetched the blanket she had seen on the recliner and wrapped it around the man on the ground, Mika had no idea what to do next. The only thing she could remember from the first aid training she had received over the years was “try to stay calm, talk to the injured person”. Right, she could do that. Possibly. What on earth was she supposed to tell Mr. Holmes? Roses. Yes, she was there to pick up that rose, and he would be probably worried that his rose wouldn’t make it to the flower show. The least she could do was to take that problem of his mind.

“I’m here to pick up your rose, Mr. Holmes,” she said. “Don’t worry about that. As soon as the ambulance arrives I’ll get your rose and take it to the show. I promise it will be on display and enter the competition, why you are taken care off in hospital. Everything is going to be fine.”

“Gregory,” Mycroft babbled.

“Gregory? Is that the name of the rose?” Mika asked. “An unusual name but it’s good, really good. I like it. It will stand out between all the princesses, famous Shakespeare characters or names people have problems to pronounce correctly.”

“No, Gregory,” Mycroft said, his voice slurred.

‘Probably his boyfriend,’ Mika thought, while wondering what that rose would look like.

A pounding on the wooden garden door startled her. Of course, the people from the ambulance wouldn’t have the code. She only got it to pick up the rose and because she was a long term friend of Anthea. Still the weeks prior she’d gone through a security check so thorough that she was certain she could even waltz into the White House without any problems.

While the paramedics took care of Mycroft, Mika looked around the conservatory and stopped dead in her tracks. “What the fuck...” Never ever had she seen a rose like the one standing proudly in the middle of the room. A shrub rose with large, classically shaped flowers that were the colour of milk chocolate. Mika knew there were roses with toffee coloured flowers, but the ones she saw now looked good enough to eat. Smelling the rose, she found herself engulfed in a scent she knew was called myrrh, an aromatic, licorice warmth of sweet anise.

“Good lord,” she whispered. The rose, that obviously went by the name of Gregory, was a winner. Without further ado she carefully placed the rose in the container she’d brought, loaded it into the van and drove off.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg spends the day at the Chelsea Flower Show.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again this story got longer, so now there will be 3 instead of 2 chapters.  
> Thanks again @lavenderandvanilla for beta-ing.

“Jesus F. Christ!” Greg yelled, when a red Aston Martin came to a stop a mere inch from the tips of his shoes and he recognised Mrs. Hudson in the driver’s seat.

“Is this yours?” he asked her through the open window and started walking round the car, running a hand lovingly over the gleaming varnish. On his face the grin similar to that of a six-year-old in a toy-shop was on full display.

“No, I stole it,” came Mrs. Hudson's clipped reply. “Now get in, before the police catch up.”

Greg quickly clambered into the passenger’s seat, hoping that Mrs. Hudson had made a joke. He had barely buckled up, when the car shot forward, leaving him no choice but to cling to the handle over the door with one hand while clutching the bag with his photo equipment with the other.

It was a bit of a tradition that Greg took his mother to the Chelsea Flower Show. Initially visiting the show had been a gift to indulge her but to his surprise he found that he enjoyed looking at the displays just as much.  
This year she had told him with a heavy heart that she couldn’t go because she’d accompany one of her best friends, a by now rather fragile woman of ninety-two, on what would probably be her last trip to Paris.  
As a consolation for missing the flower show, he’d promised to make her a calendar and brought his camera, including a tripod and a set of lenses to take pictures.  
Inviting Mrs Hudson had been a spur-of-a-moment decision and the woman had been delighted. She’d insisted that she did the driving; the least she could do for him.

Greg reflected on his religious beliefs in general, and in afterlife in particular, during the twenty- minute drive. By the time they eventually stopped at Ranelagh Gardens, in one of the very few parking spaces right on the grounds of the Royal Hospital Chelsea, he’d come to the conclusion that perhaps going to church for confession would be the sensible thing to do. Certainly before he allowed Sherlock’s landlady to chauffeur him through London again.

He gave a start when Mrs. Hudson touched his shoulder.

“I think you need something to eat, Inspector. You’re looking a bit pale.”

“I’m fine,” he croaked, already planning an excuse why he wouldn’t need Martha Hudson to drive him back home.

A couple of hours later the ride was all but forgotten. Having left Mrs Hudson to listen to the lecture of two gold medal winners *) from last year talking about the designs of their respective gardens, Greg slowly made his way through the exhibition of the roses, taking pictures.  
He’d already taken a few photos of various displays before he stopped to exchange his wide-angle lens for the new macro lens he bought just recently. He didn’t follow a particular course through the exhibition, but chose the roses by the lack of people surrounding them. The chances of not getting kicked or jostled while kneeling down while taking the photo were much higher.

A beautiful blood red and white tea-rose hybrid was his next object. Adjusting the depth-of-field on the macro lens to take a close up, he kept hearing the names “Gregory” and “Holmes”, coming from a clump of people standing around a rose he’d yet to see. The combination of those names did have a nice ring, he thought, smiling at his own silliness as he snapped away.

Greg wanted to take a couple more pictures of the tea-rose, but changed his mind when saw from the corner of his eye the group began to move away from the rose they’d enthused over. Quickly, he walked to the raised platform and stopped in front of the most unusual rose he’d ever seen. Set in a large, dark-green planter stood a rose with chocolate-brown flowers. The flowers were perfect in shape and the petals looked as if they were made of velvet. Whoever had bred that rose had thrown his whole knowledge, body and soul into the task to create this perfect specimen.  
The camera half-way raised to take a photo but completely forgotten, Greg stood there, entranced. All he could do was stare in amazement at the rose that, according to the sign next to it, was named Gregory and had been grown by one M. Holmes.

“Isn’t that just the most amazing colour?” a woman exclaimed, startling him from his contemplation.

“Pardon?” Greg asked, looking at her.

“The rose. It’s beautiful, isn’t it.” Returning his look she added, “The flowers match the colour of your eyes, you know. Your name doesn’t happen to be Gregory by any chance?”

Before his brain could even begin to form a reply she laughed, took a quick photo of the rose with her phone and hurried after what appeared to be a group of her friends, leaving Greg is a state of utter confusion.

His mind whirled. Was this possible? Would Mycroft Holmes not only grow roses, but breed a rose the colour of his eyes and then name it Gregory?

Greg decided that he needed to sit and think, preferably with a cup of tea. First things first though.

Resolutely, he began taking a series of pictures, trying for a variety of perspectives. He was kneeling on the floor when a team from the BBC approached. The commentator, obviously pleased to find Greg engrossed in taking photos, signalled the cameraman to start rolling. Microphone in hand he approached Greg.

“Hi, do you mind if I ask you a couple of questions?”

Greg blinked at the man but quickly stood up when he saw the letters BBC on the microphone. “Not at all,” he replied.

“Super. Are you a regular visitor of the Chelsea Flower Show?”

“Yes, I come every year.”

“So, you are a flower enthusiast.”

“Well, I usually take my mother to the show but this year she couldn’t make it and so I promised to take photos for her.”

“Awww, that’s nice.”

Greg couldn’t help but blush a little.

“But how about yourself, do you enjoy the show?”

“I do, yes. I mean, just look at these amazing roses. They’re fantastic.”

Greg answered a few more questions about his time at the exhibition, knowing that no more than one sentence would make it to their clip about the show anyway.

At one point the cameraman whispered something to the commentator who looked pleasantly surprised by whatever he’d just learned.

“One final question. What does it feel like to have a rose named after yourself?”

“What?”

“Well, perhaps not after you as a person but with the same name as yours. You are Greg Lestrade, aren’t you? And Greg is a shortened form of Gregory, isn’t it?”

Greg thought for a moment before he gave his answer, and, after thanking him profoundly, the BBC team moved off.  
Good lord, what had possessed him to give such an answer? Now he was desperate for a cup of tea or something stronger. Greg packed his camera and the rest of the equipment away and headed to the lecture hall to look for Mrs Hudson. Sneaking away wasn’t his style. He’d do his thinking once he returned home.

* * *

Greg had barely finished a ridiculously expensive sandwich and a cup of tea when his phone buzzed.

“Lestrade here,” he answered.

“He’s in hospital,” he heard a woman tell him.

“It took him a moment to identify the voice as that of Mycroft’s assistant.

“In hospital?”

“Yes, he’s in intensive care.”

Without giving it any thought, Greg stood up, grabbed his bag and began walking towards the exit.

“Intensive care?”

Martha Hudson looked at his retreating back in alarm but then hurried after him, resolutely opened her handbag to search for her car keys.

Anthea was telling Greg how Mycroft had collapsed in his garden the day before because he suffered from a ruptured appendix, when they reached the car. Having forgotten his earlier decision not to allow Mrs Hudson to chauffeur him again, Greg automatically climbed into the passenger’s seat.

“Which hospital?” Mrs Hudson asked, as the engine came to life.

“Royal Bromptom,” Greg repeated, as soon as he received the answer and ended the call. He stared ahead silently, for the moment incapable of putting his feelings into words. The ride was a short one and just before the pulled up in front of the hospital Mrs Hudson finally asked, “Are you going to tell me what happened to Sherlock or not?”

“Sherlock?” He looked at her in confusion. “It’s not Sherlock, who’s in hospital. It’s Mycroft.”

“That reptile?” she practically shrieked.

DI Greg Lestrade was known as a kind and patient man but every once in a while someone rubbed him the wrong way and then anger boiled to the surface. Donovan had once commented that he turned into something large and green. Of course, that wasn’t true but he’s seen armed men taking several steps back in fear in those moments.

Turning in his seat he fixed Sherlock’s housekeeper, his eyes blazing angrily.

“Mrs. Hudson, I know that you don’t like Mycroft but if you ever call him a reptile again...” He didn’t elaborate what would happen, but the old woman looked at him both startled and definitely intimidated.  
“He’s very capable of behaving like an aloof, arrogant tit but let me remind you of something. Who was always there when Sherlock kept taking drugs and overdosed? Who sat with him when he stank of sweat and vomit while going through withdrawal? Who used his influence when Sherlock murdered Magnussen to keep him out of prison or helped Sherlock not end up as a pulp when he jumped off the roof of Bart’s? Mycroft was always there for Sherlock, despite Sherlock doing his best to drive him away again and again.” Taking a deep breath he added, “as you surely know he even goaded Sherlock to shoot him to save John Watson’s life. And as far as I remember he pulled you from your flat when that bomb exploded, saving your life and getting hurt in the process. So don’t you dare call Mycroft Holmes a reptile.”

Finally running out of steam, Greg huffed and opened the door of the car. “Thanks for the ride,” he said and ran towards the hospital’s entrance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What Greg said to the BBC will be revealed in the next chapter.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg visits Mycroft in hospital, and we'll find out about both men's thoughts on the rose "Gregory".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing that story took waaay longer than I had planned. I'm grateful for Scribblingnellie's patience, who bought the story at the birthday auction- And let me say thank you once again to @lavender_and_vanilla for being patient with me and beta-ing the story.

With the information and instructions Anthea had provided, Greg found Mycroft’s room without a problem. The nurse at the station’s desk told him that their patient still needed plenty of rest, but allowed Greg a few minutes.

“Most likely, he’ll be asleep. Please, don’t disturb him.”

Greg shook his head. “I won’t,” he promised, and quietly stepped through the door the nurse indicated.

Only one bed stood in the room, which, in Greg’s opinion, looked surprisingly nice for a hospital room. The afternoon sun streamed through half drawn blinds, bathing Mycroft in its light.

“Oh Mycroft,” Greg whispered, walking to the bed. For some time, all he did was look at the sleeping man. Never before had Mycroft seemed as fragile as in this very moment. His face was pale, his hair in a disarray only days in a hospital bed could create, and an IV was connected to his left arm.

Greg had the urge to pull Mycroft into his arms, stroke his hair, and tell him that he would be well again soon. With a soft huff he acknowledged that the urge was the need to reassure himself. Pulling up the chair, Greg sat down right next to the bed.

‘I could have lost him,’ he realised. ‘Lost him without having told him how I feel.’

For a moment, Greg closed his eyes to get his feelings under control. He’d known Mycroft for years and in that time he’d seen him hurt and angry, sad and distraught, but there had always been that mixture of pride and strength the man radiated like nobody else Greg knew. Now though, lying in the hospital bed, he looked as vulnerable as an infant. Medicine was advanced these days, but Mycroft still could have died from something as pedestrian as a ruptured appendix.  
Greg promised himself that as soon as the chance presented itself, he’d tell Mycroft how he felt. If the man then decided never to speak to him again, so be it. At least Greg would have tried.

Feeling better with a semblance of a plan, he commenced looking at Mycroft. The faint tan-lines on his arms and neck suggested that he spent a fair share of time outdoors in other clothes than a suit and a tie. Freckles covered his arms like stardust and an attractive tuft of chest-hair was peeping out at the neck of his pyjamas. Greg swallowed. He had a bit of a thing for chest-hair, and longed to see what was hidden under the cotton pyjamas.

Now that he was on detection-mode, Greg noticed a few scratches on both of Mycroft’s hands and wrists. He couldn’t help but smile because he recalled that his mother used to have similar scratches. It was a long time ago, he’d still been a small boy and his mother had worked in the small garden the Lestrades owned. There she had taken care of a small vegetable patch as well as a couple of rambler roses which she loved and hated in equal measures. Hardly a day had passed without his mother threatening to cut the roses down because a thorn had torn her clothes or left a mark on her hands.

Tan-lines and scratches weren’t proof that the rose he’d seen at the exhibition had indeed been bred by Mycroft, and surely there were other men named Gregory, but he was no longer willing to doubt.  
The door opened, and the nurse stuck her head into the room. She didn’t say anything, but Greg nodded that he understood. It was time to go. The nurse left as he got up, but before he followed her, he placed a soft kiss on Mycroft’s forehead. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” he whispered.

Greg had just reached the door when a voice, rough from sleep, called his name. “Gregory?”

There it was. Not Greg or Detective Inspector but Gregory, like the rose.

“Mycroft.” Three long strides brought him back to the side of the bed. Sitting down again, Greg leaned over the man who looked at him from tired grey-blue eyes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” Mycroft replied and cleared his throat. “I’m thirsty.” His speech was somewhat slurred, and he smiled benignly at his visitor. Whatever medication he’d received, it was obviously still affecting him.

“I’ll get you something,” Greg promised, and hurried outside. He returned a couple of minutes later with a glass of water and a straw. Raising the head of the bed a little, he helped Mycroft to find a comfortable position that prevented him from choking on his drink, and offered the glass to him.

Mycroft kept smiling at him though, and seemed to have completely forgotten that he was thirsty.

“Mycroft?” Greg held the straw to his lips, which startled the man out of his contemplation.

“Thank you,” Mycroft said. First he took a tentative sip, but then quickly emptied the glass.

Greg put the glass on the night-stand and when he turned back, Mycroft’s eyelids were already dropping again.

“I better leave,” he said, lowering the head of Mycroft’s bed, so the man could go back to sleep.

Mycroft reached for his hand. “Thank you.”

Greg gave the long fingers a gentle squeeze. “You’re quite welcome.”

He hesitated. Should he…? Pushing the guilt aside, because he was clearly taking advantage of Mycroft’s medication-induced befuddlement, Greg asked the one question he desperately wanted the answer for.

“Who did you name that rose after?”

“Wha…?” Mycroft slurred, his eyes already closed.

“The rose at the flower show. You chose the name of a person, didn’t you?”

“It’s my mother’s middle name.”

With that, Mycroft dropped off for good.

Greg blinked and he kept blinking for a whole minute while he tried to digest the peculiar answer. He knew that Mycroft’s mother had brought the name Holmes into the family, when Mycroft’s father, Nicolas Hickinbotham, chose to adopt his wife’s name as his own. Greg couldn’t have misunderstood the middle name for maiden name, but he did have some doubts Mycroft’s mother had the name Mabel Gregory Holmes in her passport. Well, he’d find out eventually. At least it proved that Mycroft had participated at the flower show.

Giving the sleeping man one final look, Greg left to head home. He had some serious thinking to do.

* * *

The following 24 hours passed somewhere different than the DI had planned. In retrospect he considered himself somewhat lucky because he’d managed to return home, take a shower and eat a proper meal before the phone rang. Giving the bottle of beer he’d only just opened a sad glance, he grabbed his wallet, mobile, and keys, and rushed outside to meet Donovan, who just pulled up in front of the house.  
Falk Mariner, a 40-year-old serial killer they’d been hunting for weeks had been spotted. Two hours prior, he’d been stopped by a Constable for speeding. In his panic Mariner had accelerated his Volvo, and ran the young officer over. He’d also tried hitting the unfortunate Constable’s senior partner, but the man managed to escape the fate by jumping over the railing of a bridge into Regent’s canal. A few horrified pedestrians who’d witnessed the scenario, not only managed to rescue the badly hurt officer, but also called 999, and provided a licence number of the car. Mariner had been arrested at Heathrow as he was trying to board a plane to Buenos Aires with a forged passport.

Greg arrived at home shortly before two o’clock in the morning, slept until nine, and was back at work an hour later. Fortunately, his team was experienced and well-coordinated, so they all could go home late on Sunday afternoon.

Entering Mycroft’s room after a knock, Greg found the patient in a much improved state. Wearing his glasses, Mycroft was propped up with a thick pillow, reading something on an iPad.  
Lowering the iPad, Mycroft looked quite pleased when he caught sight of his visitor. “Gregory!”

“Oh, I’m glad to see you up and about,” Greg said, equally happy.

He placed a vase with a small bouquet of flowers on the table by the window.

“Those are ginger flowers. They symbolise strength,” he explained. “Thought you could need some.”

Mycroft produced a soft huff of false indignation. “Nonsense. I’m perfectly alright.”

“Sure you are.”

The men smiled at each other.

For a while they chatted like they always did, about Sherlock, politics, and London. Greg was half-way through the tale about last night’s arrest, when Mycroft’s phone beeped.  
“Would you mind if I switched on the TV?” Mycroft asked, switching off the alarm on his phone. “There’s a twenty minute report about the Chelsea Flower Show coming up which I’d like to watch.” Mycroft blushed prettily.

“Not at all,” Greg replied. “You know, I visit the show every year?”

Mycroft’s gaze shifted from the remote he held in his hand to Greg’s face. “I didn’t know you cared about flowers.”

“Unnerving for a Holmes not having deduced everything there is to deduce, isn’t it?” Greg winked to show that he was joking. While Mycroft returned to finding the correct channel, Greg told him about his mother’s affection for roses, that they visited the Chelsea Flower Show each year, and how his mother’s aforementioned affection had rubbed off on him.  
The report began with an overview about the show, the number of visitors, and an excerpt of Prince William’s speech at the opening. The report quickly named the winners of the medals for garden designs before it turned to report about the roses.  
The exhibition hall was presented and the sections it was divided in explained, before the commentator came to announce the awards.  
“Undoubtedly a new standard is set with a rose I can only call an innovation. The rose breeder is a newcomer at the show, but without exaggeration it’s fair to say that he put more than a few experienced rose-growers to shame. The gold medal goes to Mr M. Holmes for a truly astounding creation of his rose, Gregory.”

Mycroft’s gasp answered Greg’s question whether Mycroft really was the person who’d bred the rose. Looking at Mycroft, he did a double take though. Where he’d expected joy, delight or happiness, Mycroft’s face was pale with shocked terror. Terror, that quickly changed into deep embarrassment.  
On the screen of the TV, superimposed, they saw the rose Greg had admired at the flower show, its name Gregory already printed on the golden plaque next to it.

Mycroft’s face meanwhile turned from pale to scarlet. “How could they? Why did they? It’s wrong. I had intended Luella for the show. Gregory was never… Oh God!” Mycroft’s torrent of words came to a stuttering halt, and he buried his face in his hands.

Looking at the distressed man, Greg was confused for all but a moment. Then he understood, and all he felt was sympathy for the man as he recalled a somewhat similar situation from his youth.

Action dolls hadn’t been invented when Greg was fifteen, and the only male doll available was Ken. One day, Greg had discovered that his older sister had disposed of her complete Barbie collection, including Ken. At that time he’d a serious crush on Arsenal player Trevor Ross. Greg had pulled Ken from the rubbish bin later that night, put the doll in an Arsenal outfit, and had stitched clumsily ROSS on it’s back. When Greg’s best friend Patrick discovered the doll by accident some weeks later, Greg had thought he’d die of embarrassment. Patrick had teased him mercilessly for weeks, but at least never told anyone.  
His mind returning to the present, Greg looked at the upset man in the bed. He switched off the TV, and turned to gently pull Mycroft’s hand’s from his face.

If he hoped though, he would get the chance to tell Mycroft that he understood and was rather flattered that a rose should be named after him, Greg was wrong.

“It was that Mika person, who picked up the rose,” Mycroft all but shouted. “She mixed it up. My Gre… ah... rose, it wasn’t intended to be on display. It’s private and she shouldn’t have done that.”

A couple of times, Greg tried to get a word in to explain to Mycroft how he felt but when the agitated man kept ranting, going on and on how bringing that rose to the flower show had been a mistake, Greg decided there was only one thing to do. Leaning forward, Greg kissed him.

Mycroft froze. It took a moment for his brain to translate the sensation of being kissed into ‘that’s rather enjoyable’ but once that had happened, Mycroft began to relax. Relax and take hold of Greg’s biceps. Mycroft’s other hand grabbed the front of Greg’s shirt before he sighed softly, parted his lips and introduced his tongue to join the fun.  
Silencing Mycroft with a kiss was pretty perfect, Greg decided then. It worked much better than words and got the message across much more clearly too. Not to mention that it was infinitely more pleasant. Perhaps he should have tried it before, although kissing at crime scenes was not encouraged.  
Eventually the kiss ended, and they looked at each other.

“I’ve had feelings for you for quite some time,” Greg said, now that Mycroft was more perceptive, “but I couldn’t imagine they were reciprocated. I wasn’t… I am not sure, I’ll be enough for you.”

“Enough?” Mycroft whispered, as if he was afraid to break the spell. “You are more, much more than enough. You are everything. From the moment we met...” He traced Greg’s brows with a finger before allowing his hand to card it through the silver strands he was exceedingly fond of. “I thought and I still think you are beautiful. Outside and inside. You are resourceful, kind and caring. You are loyal, warm.” He swallowed. “While I’m...”

“Shush, you’re incredibly caring,” Greg replied. “Sherlock calls it meddling but there’s so much love behind your actions. The way you protect those you love. Don’t hide your light under the bushel.”  
Greg leaned forward until his forehead rested against Mycroft. “You are amazing.”

The men kept talking and touching, holding hands and kissing every so often until a nurse arrived with Mycroft’s dinner and medication for the night.

“I guess I have to go. Can’t promise that I’ll be able to return tomorrow. We have to wrap up the case,” Greg said, once the nurse had left. 

“The doctor told me I can go home in a couple of days, unless there are any complications. I should be home for at least another ten days. Perhaps you could come over for dinner then?”

“I’d love to.” Greg leaned down to place a soft kiss on Mycroft’s lips. “I promise, I’ll text to wish you a good night later.”

“Please,” Mycroft replied, and with a smile he watched Greg leave before he closed his eyes and relaxed into his pillow for a moment. What a day!

Two hours later, Mycroft switched on the TV once more to watch the rerun of the earlier report about the flower show. To his great astonishment he not only found his rose being the centre of attention, but the very man he’d named the rose after being interviewed right next to it. Leaning forward, Mycroft listened intently to what Greg had to say, when the commentator asked him what it felt like to have a rose named after himself.  
“I suppose I’d be extremely flattered,” Greg said. “You see, there’s this quote, I don’t know by whom. It says, a rose speaks of love silently, in a language known only to the heart.” Greg turned his head, and instead of looking at the commentator, he looked directly into the camera and seemingly right into Mycroft’s eyes.

“My heart listened and understood.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Truths and roses have thorns about them.” Henry David Thoreau
> 
> I thought there would be only one gold medal for a garden at the Chelsea Flower Show but apparently they distinguish between several types like e.g. resilience garden, artisan garden or family garden, to name only a few.
> 
> Mrs Holmes' initials are "M. L. Holmes" as reads on the cover of her book "The Dynamics of Combustion" in 'His Last Vow’. I decided on Mabel Luella, both Victorian names. Hence, Mycroft named the rose he’d intended for the show, Luella, probably in the feeble hope to get on his mother’s good side again.

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously I have no clue how the competition of the Chelsea Flower Show works but I needed Mycroft's rose to get the attention only a show as prestigious as that show can offer.


End file.
